


Weekend Lethargy

by Brishen



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Breakfast, Cuddling, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, painter!carlos, pianist!cecil, word vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 23:45:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1204948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brishen/pseuds/Brishen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lazy Saturday morning</p>
<p>Carlos's POV is normal text</p>
<p>Cecil's POV is Italic</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weekend Lethargy

_His arms are strong. Not incredibly, overly large kind of strong, but protective (and less furry than my old boyfriends were.) His chest pressed against my back keeps me warm. I’m not cold, but it’s a comforting kind of warm; human warm. He is always so, so warm. Warm like the bloodstones as you collect them after your daily rituals._

 

He’s cradled in my arms, breathing deeply. He’s always breathed so slowly, like each inhalation takes all his effort. I’m assuming he’s asleep, but his body is slowly stirring. The scent of his hair is calming. It smells like… soap. And night time - cool and soft - with some kind of fruit mixed in… he smells nice. He smells like home, as cliché as that sound.

 

_I can tell he’s awake. His thumb is gently rubbing my forearm. A small smile appears on my lips. I don’t feel like moving, but I’m becoming a bit restless. The feeling of lying in his arms overcomes my urge to move, however. So I content myself with rolling over like so many tumbleweeds so I’m facing him._

The cosmos - that’s what I think of when I see his eyes; dark heliotrope like the crown of the sky after the sun has set, a ring of deeper violet around his pupils, the majority of his iris flecked with gold and silver, like sunlight and stars. He is beautiful, and he is mine. I smile and his endearingly sleepy expression turns to one of adoration and he leans forward.

 

_His lips we’re made for mine. They fit perfectly together, like hands holding each other. You would think that his lips would be rough, considering how much he licks his lips; a bad habit. But every time I kiss him, they seem to grow softer - and my heart still flutters like a rabid pterodactyl inside my chest. I wonder if he softens them with sand, like that sugar scrub stuff the girls always talk about, but sugar was banned a few months ago so maybe he had to substitute with the closest thing to sugar, which is surprisingly bland in flavor and does **not** go well in baked goods._

If I could, I would never stop of kissing him, but air is kind of important so I force myself to pull my lips away, if only for a few seconds. He has a very intense stare, I’ve noticed. When he’s talking to you, he looks you straight in the eye. Most people feel uncomfortable about that. I find it endearing, like he’s talking to you with his eyes as much as his sonorous voice.

 

_I nuzzle my face into his neck. His skin smells like… skin. I suppose that’s a good thing. But I don’t know for sure, because skin scents are a very relative thing for a human to have. A hint of after-shave still lingers there, like the last drops of water being soaked up by the cacti. Finally, I give him another kiss and sit up. I’m still drowsy, so I just lean back against the headboard and let out a contented sigh, rubbing my arms to wake up the organisms that inhabit my skin. The tentacle-like ink stains begin to squirm and the eyes blink up at me slowly, processing the idea of waking up. Evidently they warm up to the idea and start moving around, adjusting their places on my torso and extremities so I have two oculars on the top of my hands and two at the base of my neck. It tingles slightly when they blink or slither around, but I’m used to the sensation; it’s comforting, in a way._

I dread that it’s finally time to move, but I know I can always come back, and he will follow. So I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up, slowly shuffling my feet over the carpet and into the bathroom, drawing my shirt over my head and off my body as I do so. I can almost feel his eyes widen as he admires me. Again. I would’ve thought his constant compliments and self-image boosting remarks would be annoying by now but honestly they just keep getting nicer and nicer to hear in his rich, melodious tones.

 

_I run my fingers through my hair, detangling some of the knots in my two-toned locks that grew there over night. I wiggle my toes and crack my finger knuckles, trying to regain some kind of control over my useless limbs. Of course, I haven’t fully moved yet because he’s hogging the bathroom, and I’m not moving unless there’s a good reason to. I still don’t mind though, because even though I thought he had naturally perfect hair, it takes a long time to create and maintain the perfect volume._

Face washed and teeth brushed, I let him have the bathroom. He gives me a light smack on the arm; a lovely morning greeting. I don’t mind though, it’s not like he means anything by it. I head downstairs to make us some coffee. He needs his coffee, especially on the weekend. Rummaging around in the cupboards, I notice the only flavor we have is called ‘Spiders Crawling out of a Red Velvet Cupcake.’ It’s sweet and a little nutty, but otherwise not too terrible. He seems to like it, anyway. He’s always had a sweet tooth. I put the kettle on to boil and lean against the counter, crossing my legs at the ankles.

 

_I follow him downstairs after a few minutes, rubbing my eyes as I descend to the kitchen. He’s making coffee already. I smile, not being able to help myself. He’s so cute and much too good to me. I pull open the fridge and grab a couple of eggs. Grab a skillet, turn on the stove. He needs his eggs, especially on the weekend. I’ve learned that he doesn’t like poached, boiled, or over-easy eggs, only scrambled, which is strange to me because I always like to watch the yolk oozing out of the white membrane its encased in, but each to their own. Besides, he says the yolk freaks him out too much. Reminds him too closely of that one birthday present a few years ago; can’t say I blame him for having bad memories about that._

***

 

 

After breakfast he and I go into the garage. My easel is only half painted, and sheets of music are strewn around the floor. They are marked on with no notes that I ever learned, nor ever heard of existing, so I didn’t bother trying to study them; not right now, anyway. He begins the gather the pages, and throws about half of them in the trash. His brows are knitted together in annoyance. I exhale slowly through my nose, knowing my opinion will only piss him off more, so I sit down and begin mixing colors; pink into purple and then grey, and red into orange and then the lilac.

 

_I start playing the pieces of music I remember from when I was a child. I started after my mother died, and the memorization of notes helped me with learning my radio presentations. Some of the pieces I only know the right hand to, some only the left hand. Sometimes I only play because I know he likes it, and he thinks I’m good, and other times I play because I know in a very short while I won’t be able to play anymore and I will be crumbling to dust and ash under the soft pressure of earth and sand. And I do love my piano… it speaks to me. Like my own mother, disconcerting and mystical. Sometimes a little scary and overly dramatic, but otherwise we are of the same mind. In the time I was thinking about the inevitability of our demise, I had stopped playing and had unconsciously started staring at him. His profile is so handsome._

I can tell he’s calming down, so I spin around on my chair and look at him. He regards me with a perfect poker face. Then he sighs and begins playing again. I smile and go back to my art.

 

_E, ‘E’ Sharp, E, ‘E’ Sharp, E, B, D, A, C; Fur Elise, one of his favorites - He says the tune helps him concentrate, which is strange because in a recent survey 67% of Night Vale citizens said Of Mice and Men and Tibetan Throat Singing was better for helping concentration, rather than classical. But then again, he is not a native Night Valeian, so it must be different everywhere. For a few minutes I stop and look at his easel. He’s painting the sunset, again. He keeps saying he can never get the colors right, even though I insist it couldn’t get any closer to the actual color of the sunset on Thursdays. He only ever paints the fiery oranges and pinks of Thursday sunsets, never the void-like azure of Monday or the sickly pastel green of Saturday. I figure it’s because orange is his favorite color._

He always knows when I’m tense, and he always knows just how to get rid of the tension. His thumbs work into my shoulders as I work, making finer detail after even finer detail on my art until I’m satisfied (for now). He rests his chin on my shoulder. I can feel his eyes scanning every inch of the canvas, looking for a flaw. But of course, he sees none, and if he does he shrugs off the imperfection as actual perfection because that’s just how he is, and I think it’s wonderful.

 

_He’s a wonderful artist. I honestly don’t know how he can criticize himself. I suggest to him that we leave the art for another time and go back to bed. Maybe do some science, I add with a small smirk. He shakes his head and shrugs me off his shoulder, walking back into the house. I follow him quietly, and as I pass a window (not our window, or anyone’s window, just a window) I admire the stormy sky outside and watch the faint lights as they appear and disappear in the thick cloud layer._

***

 

 

Even though I disagreed with him at first, I climb back into bed. There’s a mold next to me that was formed by his body. I close my eyes, and after a few minutes I feel him join me. I trace the lines of his tattoos with my index finger, watching the way they chase after my finger, looking for more attention. He laughs softly as I get to the sensitive skin under his forearms, watching the small mountain-like ridges and dots contort to make way for the digit intruding their resting place.

 

_I can’t help but curl up close to him. He’s lying on his back, so I rest my head on his chest and listen to the steady pounding of his heart. Strange, how hearts pound and do not knock politely or ring the doorbell. They pound mercilessly against the walls of muscle and bone in our chest cavities like they would be able to get out. Silly things, don’t they know they can never escape? I’ve thought about letting mine go, out of pity, but then I wouldn’t be able to do my broadcast and he would be devastated, so I’ve had to keep it captive. My palm is lightly resting against the back of his, and both hands lay on his tan stomach._

As I fall back asleep, I whisper into his lips, “I love you.”

 

_“I love you, too,”_ _I answer, kissing him back before we both drift off into our dreams. The void and the lights in the sky do not care - and the Glow Cloud and Mayor Pamela Winchell does not approve, but we care and we see no fault in our intertwining fates, and that’s all that matters, in the end._


End file.
